


Harlequin Kisses

by TimmyJaybird



Series: Carnival [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weeks after his last encounter with the Joker, Bruce is still haunted. He sees that painted mouth in his sleep, he can't escape those dancing nights. So, when he finally encounters the Clown Prince of Crime for another possible dance, it's easy to see how quickly he will come undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harlequin Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Departing from the actual plot of the series for some smut! The next installment will get us back on track, but it was hard enough to not have some in the first fic- I couldn't help myself.

Gloved hands reached into his dark hair, dug at his scalp and pulled his head back, exposing his neck. He swallowed the lump building in his throat, felt a pair of lips press just below his Adam’s apple, then against his jugular, drinking in his racing pulse, the blood pumping like fire beneath his skin.

“Say my name, Batsy baby,” he said in a voice not sing song like usual, but something softer, breathier, driven by a need even the maniac hadn’t anticipated. He kissed his way up to his ear, whispered the demand again, hips grinding together, causing sweet hot friction, and it was almost enough to end him. Almost, so close, so close, and the demand again as he leaned back, with those dancing green eyes, pupils tiny and wild. “ _Sssaaay_ it.”

Bruce’s eyes opened with a start, his breath catching in his throat, a word dying on his lips. He stared up into the black, towards the ceiling above, felt the sweat settling on his body.

This wasn’t the first dream. Not nearly. Ever since his encounter a good two weeks ago, Bruce had been dreaming of the Joker, of those wild eyes like green fire, of that mouth that had found his in his drugged state. And every time he awoke aching with need, his chest tight. His mind clouded with shame.

Rolling onto his side, he squeezed his eyes shut. This was one of the few nights he was allowing himself solitude from the suit, from the Bat, allowing himself a full night’s rest. He had hoped it would go without a visit from the green haired clown. He had been so wrong.

When Bruce’s eyes opened again, it was to the sound of purring in his ear and footsteps in his room. He shifted, saw a furry black tail in vision, before the cat padded across his chest as if she owned him, as if she was a piece of furniture.

Pumpkin, he had named her. It seemed fitting, since she had come to him on Halloween. The collar Alfred had given her now boasted, along with the original bell, a little silver pumpkin with her name scrawled on it.

Alfred himself was bustling about. He had set a cup of coffee on Bruce’s night side table, and was dusting about. Bruce sat up, taking the coffee and cradling it.

“Good morning sir,” Alfred said without turning around. “Sleep well?”

“No,” Bruce said honestly, sipping at the coffee and petting Pumpkin. Alfred said nothing, kept dusting, but he seemed to be avoiding turning to meet Bruce’s eyes. “Alfred,” he said, and when the butler ignored him, he said it louder, with more force.

Finally Alfred turned, sighed, and said, “You should turn on the news, Master Wayne, though you won’t be happy.”

The news indeed hadn’t made him happy. In the night, some of the large explosions all across the city. None in buildings of any importance, but still enough to keep the fire fighters and cops busy all night. There had been casualties, though not the number there could have been, had the targets been chosen better.

Bruce spent the day pondering, trying to figure out what he might have been missing. He sent a request to Gordon to get his hands on the most recent Arkham files again, signed off as Batman and not Bruce. The past two weeks the requests had been denied to him, to Gordon even, and not a word of the asylum had been spoken on the news.

When dusk set in and Bruce hadn’t heard back, he knew he’d have to face the night and hope for some light in the morning. He strapped himself into the batsuit, mounted the batpod, and set out into the night.

The air had a chill to it as November had set in. Batman could see his breath just ghosting ahead of him, but he had been graced with no snow. Yet.

Leaving the batpod in the shadows, he took to the rooftops, surveying the ruins of one of the buildings that had gone up in smoke last night. He cursed himself for choosing that night to stay in, to sleep, only to be tormented by those green eyes and that lucious, vile, alluring-

“Yoo- _hoo_! Batsy!”

His head jerked up, and there he was, as if he appeared from the molecules in the air. The Joker stood at the next building over, his coat blowing around him in the shallow wind. He beckoned for Batman to come over, saying something that Bruce didn’t catch. He moved like lightning, jumping the gap and tackling the man to the roof, pinning him and punching his jaw.

The maniac laughed. “Is that anyway to say hellooo?” He was grinning still, and Batman grabbed his head, slammed the back into the concrete. The giggle fit that ensued was one of the most unsettling sounds he’d ever heard.

“What are you up to?” The Joker looked up mock innocently, wriggling around beneath Batman, causing a friction between the two.

“Me? Up to something? Oh, no no no no no, Batsy, you’ve got it _all_ wrong.” He pushed his hips up, into Batman’s, and the vigilante nearly lost his breath, cursed himself. What was wrong with him? “I’m just _watching_ is all.”

Batman watched his eyes dance, with some secret, and with a feeling of dread, he asked, “Watching what?”

“Oh, the mayhem, what you’ve been missing at night. The explosions, the _prett-yyyy_ colors, the pure _fear_. And you, Brucie baby.”

A cold sweat broke out under his suit. He knew. The damn clown knew. He’d had this feeling, ever since he came to and he was home, with Alfred, and not locked in his car with the madman, but now he knew for sure.

“Don’t look so panicked dar- _ling_. I can keep your secret... for a price.” His grin broadened, and Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, chaos, madness, mayhem, the usual,” he said, before pushing his hips up, grinding against Bruce obscenely. “And _you_.” He chuckled, something low, something obscene and unnerving, something that made Bruce come undone at the seams.

He rolled off the madman, sat next to him. The Joker sat up, dusted himself off, fixed his green and gold plaid vest, fixed some of those green curls, his dirty blonde roots growing out still. He hadn’t dyed it yet, even though he’d been free of Arkham for two weeks.

Bruce took the moment to study him as he seemed to sort out every little detail of himself, his hair, the wrinkles in his clothes. He was thinner than when he’d been locked up, though Bruce wasn’t sure if he was the same as when he’d seen him two weeks prior, or even smaller. His hair was getting longer, and even though it desperately needed to be washed, it had those natural curls you could dig your fingers into. Under the paint and make-up, after a long bath, the Joker was probably an attractive guy.

A realization that made Bruce consider checking himself into Arkham for a night or two.

“Careful Brucie,” he said, leaning back on his hands and staring into the vigilante, “I can just _feel_ your eyes.” He winked, and Bruce should have wanted to tear his throat out, but instead he felt heat rising to his cheeks. To hell with himself tonight.

The Joker licked his lips, before leaning over, partially crawling onto Batman’s lap. Bruce tried to lean away, but he had nowhere to go unless he wanted to end up on his back, which he knew would only be worse.

The Joker ran a hand up along his suit, his chest and collar bone, the side of his face. Bruce could feel his breath ghosting over him, feel his heart beat as if it pounded in the air.

“You toss a lot in your sleep,” the Joker mused, sounding serious for a moment, “so _restless_. What do you dream about, Batsy? Is all those skinny little models you bring home?” His thumb traced over Bruce’s lower lip, down his chin, along his jawline. “Noooo? Hmmmm, what then, dar-ling?”

Batman swallowed, but it was Bruce that spoke, his voice losing the gruff, guttural sound, coming out a raspy whisper.

“You.”

The Joker grinned then, both his hands reaching up and gripping Bruce by the back of his neck, fingers pressing to his cowl. He closed the space, kissed him for the second time since his escape. This time, Bruce could truly feel his every move, the way his lips lacked a real rhythm, but moved exquisitely, deviously, the way he tasted of paint and something else, something oddly sweet.

He was grasping the madman without realizing it, tipping his own head back, a few dingy green curls ghosting against his face. Bruce grew dizzy, realized he wasn’t breathing, and lost himself, falling back against the concrete. The Joker followed quickly, shifting, sprawling between his legs, stroking the little bit of skin his cowl exposed, fingers pressing against the edges, nudging it, wanting to find a way to pry it off. He kissed Bruce again while he pried, shifting around on top of him, Bruce’s hips moving with his without thought.

It was better than the hauntings he had every night, better than what he had perceived in his drugged out state. The Joker’s lips weren’t something horrifying, they had a softness to them beneath the paint, paint that was smearing onto his own face.

He wrapped his arms around the madman, held him tight, one hand ghosting down his spine, his hip, grabbing his ass fiercely and making the maniac groan, before he broke the kiss and cackled.

“Oooh, careful now, Batsy, don’t get me too _revved up_ ,” he laughed out, accentuating the last words with a grind of his hips. Bruce groaned, kneaded the flesh under his hand regardless of the warning, and forgot that they were on the roof in the middle of the night, surrounded by the city’s lights. Forgot about the explosions the night before, or why he was chasing this man, even that he should be cuffing him and escorting him back to Arkahm.

He forgot everything except those dancing eyes and those oddly alluring lips, the tight and lithe body above him. And what he found was a burning need that no one and nothing had aroused in him in all his years.

The Joker’s hands were fumbling between them now, along his belt, one running over his crotch, up and down the bulge there, making him nearly shudder.

“Now where’s the damn opening,” he was muttering, “whereisitwhereisitwhereisit!” He seemed frantic to get to Bruce’s skin, as if his time was limited. He clicked his tongue in annoyance when he couldn’t figure the suit out, and a knife slide from his sleeve, slicing along the fabric before Bruce could protest. He pulled and cut, ripped and threw pieces, exposing Bruce’s lower abdomen and his tight clinging underwear.

Carefully, the Joker ran to side of his knife up along Bruce’s straining erection, so obvious even in the dim light. Bruce gasped, shuddering, a plea for the man to touch him nearly escaping his throat, had he not bit his tongue at the last moment. He had to have some control, somewhere deep within him, he had to have a part of him that questioned these insane feelings, arousals, that screamed at him to beat this man into a pulp.

Where ever that part of him was, he was deathly silent.

“Oh, poor Brucie,” the Joker mewled, making _tisking_ noises with his tongue. “That looks like it... _hurts_.” He squeezed Bruce’s cock through his underwear, made him gasp, giggling the whole while, like a child with a new toy. Then, in a quick precise movement, he cut the little bit of fabric down the center, allowing Bruce’s cock to bounce free.

He ran a gloved finger down the underside before Bruce could react, licked his lips before he grasped it and gave the cock a few quick pumps. Bruce pushed himself up on his elbows, panting, watching, suffocating beneath the cowl. Yet, even though the Joker knew who lay beneath it, he dared not to take it off.

The madman leaned forward again, his free hand holding Bruce’s head still as he kissed him, ravished his mouth as his strokes worked him just as erratically as his lips. Bruce felt all his nerves coming undone inside him, his mind sizzling and drying up. He clutched at the Joker, on the lapels of his jacket, clung to him for dear life.

No one’s touch had ever felt like such fire, like acid that burned into his skin and set his blood alight. No one’s touch had shaken him to the core and made his skin melt from muscle melt form bone. No one, except the one madman he seemed destined to dance forever with. No man, except this harlequin, and his exquisite kisses.

“Does it feel _gooood_?” the Joker cooed against his lips, licking the lower one, and Bruce nodded weakly. The Joker swept his thumb over the glistening head, dragged it down the underside, and Bruce- damnable as it was- moaned like a wanton whore for him.

“Ahh Batsy, that’s iiitt.” He kissed him again. “Now ask.” A kiss. “For.” Another. “ _Iiiittt_.”

“Please,” Bruce spoke before he thought, before he registered his tongue was moving. The Joker grinned, one word enough, and shoved Bruce down roughly, releasing his aching cock long enough to slip down the vigilante’s body, to place his lips- the paint now smudged, mostly gone- against the head of Bruce’s cock in a shockingly soft kiss. Then he swallowed him, mouth warm and wet and far too pleasurable, his tongue running along Bruce’s cock as it disappeared into his mouth.

Batman gasped, Bruce internally cried out, and the two fused into one ball of need as he clutched at the concrete, as he pushed his hips towards the madman’s mouth. The Joker was moaning himself, the sounds echoing against Bruce’s cock, vibrating his skin and blood, and as his hands trailed up the vigilante’s thigh, Bruce knew he was done for.

Another few bobs of his head, a flick of his tongue, and the Joker got exactly what he wanted. Bruce cried out, loud and clear into the night, his body exploding in hot white need, filling the Joker’s mouth. He swallowed, and Bruce would later wish he could have watched that pale white throat work as he took down every drop.

Then the Joker was sitting back, and Bruce was dazed, trying to prop himself up. The clown’s own excitement was obvious in his pants, one of his hands running up his own thigh, touching himself gently, as if he didn’t realize his hand was there. Bruce considered that hand, that need, and made the silent decision he wanted it-

But then they heard it. The loud BOOM that seemed to shake the city. Bruce blinked back his post orgasm daze, turned around, and saw the light, the flames, not far from here. He turned back to the Joker, nearly black eyes growing serious, and the maniac shrugged one shoulder.

“I must’ve forgotten,” he said, “I was a bit _dissssss-tracted_.” Bruce went to stand, but the Joker was faster, bounding up to his feet and a few steps backwards. Bruce had to fight with his suit, to try and cover himself, knew he was in no physical or mental state- regardless of the suit- for a fight.

The Joker eyed him up and down, grinning wickedly. “It wasn’t _me_ though,” he continued, “just one of your other friends, Brucie. I meant to tell you- really, I diiid, but other things _came up_.” He went into a giggle fit, and suddenly he was that foolish murdering clown again, the monster Bruce wanted to bury under the ocean and let the deep sea mysteries consume. The man that he still had the urge to grab, to press to, grind against.

The man who’s mouth felt like a fucking god.

“Not much you can do now,” he mused, “best go on home, Brucie baby. Clean yourself up a bit- you look quite the, ah, messsss.” He turned, sauntering away without a care, and Bruce simply watched, until he disappeared into the shadows.

He didn’t chase after him. He didn’t run towards the burning mess in the distance. He stood in the dark, listened to his own pulse pound in his head, then descended slowly to the shadows and disappeared into the dark, to the batpod, to home.

The Joker’s kisses had left him drained, drained and seething with something raw and needy. They had left him a mess of a man, but a man who knew his own needs as he raced through the dark towards his penthouse. His own sick, twisted needs-

Those dancing green eyes, and that twisted mouth. Those desperate hands, and those harlequin kisses.


End file.
